


All the Kings Horses

by iArgent



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: All relationships are background except for Dimiyuri and sylvix, And Yuri, Arranged marriage sort of but Dimitri is arranging his own circumstances, Blue Lions route but only Dimitri and dedue were there, But he's a special case, But not cuz they died like Glenn because glenn is alive, Competing for the kings hand in marriage, Domestic Dimiyuri, F/F, F/M, First chapter is weak forgive me, Friends to Lovers, Jousting, Lovers to Husbands, M/M, Multi, No Beta, Officers Academy never really happened, Or to keep your friend from entering a loveless marriage because you should tell people your plans, Playing games with nobility, Some angst cuz sylvix, Tourney AU, also, in this fic - Freeform, there will be smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:49:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24892663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iArgent/pseuds/iArgent
Summary: In an attempt to marry his lover, Yuri, Dimitri must first thwart tradition, then make his kingdom deal with it.What better way then an equal opportunity Tourney with his hand as the prize? After all, if you can't destroy a stupid system overnight, make it work for you next year.Unfortunately his childhood friends worry this is a one way trip to misery, and set off to help.A few hours away. Felix realizes Sylvain will never love him, and with some help from Glenn, decides he can save at least one friend from himself and enters the ring.Sylvain screws up a lot. But he always tries to help his friends out. Now he has to redouble his efforts to save Felix and Dimitri from settling into a loveless marriage, Ingrid from being separated from Dorothea, and maybe dig deep and learn why Felix suddenly stopped smiling at him. Nah, too easy.Yuri wishes Dimitri had just stuck his hand in the propaganda machine because this is a mess.
Relationships: Background relationships - Relationship, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Yuris Leclair | Yuri Leclerc, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 16
Kudos: 13





	1. Publicity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MxTicketyBoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MxTicketyBoo/gifts).



> Heyyyy
> 
> So. I'm bad at updating, and I know this chapter isn't great. But hey! I hope y'all enjoy it.

Yuri arched his spine and slid his hand down the king of Faerghus’s slick back, breathing heavily. The room had a misty haze around the edges, his shoulders and arms were heavy, feeling like they were constructed of sopping blankets. His legs and hips ached, but in a way he enjoyed, like he’d spent a few hours on horseback running free.

His other hand crossed the one sliding up and down the kings back, burying itself in the soft hair and cupping Dimitri’s skull, ears only tangentially aware of the noise of the mans mouth on his neck. Dimitri’s voice was rough, his hands warm, but if he was honest, Yuri wasn’t feeling much of anything beyond ‘good.’ And when he could, his sticky stomach and cock, and the currently pleasant soon to be ‘aah, fuck’ aching would come in before the delicate movements of his kings hands on his skin.

“Stay with me. Marry me.”

Yuri closed his eyes, unsure of how long passed before he opened them again, allowing Dimitri to murmur the question into his skin all the while.

“Prince consort isn’t a bad title.”

No, it was not.

“My lovely gyrfalcon, stay.”

“People like me don’t get to sit on thrones, Dima.” Yuri murmured, still stroking, still holding. “Even if you bullied your way through, your country would enter some kind of revolt when they hear some nobody bastard commoner breathed near the throne, let alone sat on it.”

“If I find a way, you’ll say yes?”

Yuri scoffed, but with no heat, ruffling long golden hair and allowing his mouth to melt into a affectionate smile. “Sweet finch, if you find a way I agree with, of course I will.”

Blue eyes crystallized to ice in determination. “You won’t regret allowing me this opportunity. I will come up with something, I swear it.”

Yuri blinked himself to sleep in Dimitri’s arms. A fantasy, if nothing more. A sweet distraction. A pleasant oath that, despite Dimitri never being able to follow through, meant the man was devoted. He was better off getting some rest with his king while he could. The morning came early and Yuri had to slip out through a servants entrance and into the Underground for his own meetings before the castle awoke. It would be at least a week before he slipped in to find dinner and candles, and the only man he wanted to bow to with a sheepish smile like he was the reason it had been so long and not them both. And warm arms and a warm bed and that uncomfortable gooey feeling that invaded his chest and slicked his tongue with cloying sweetness. Love, or whatever.

_~Three Days Later~_

“It…Would be a good time to consider marriage. Your majesty.” Rodrigue said, tone carefully neutral, but his eyes warm and fatherly. “You will be twenty four soon, it is time to perhaps begin thinking of heirs.”

Dimitri opened his mouth to protest, and Rodrigue cut him off, a wry twist to his mouth.

“Be they of a queen, or in the name of you and your spouse. In either case, you should begin looking for a partner, it would raise morale after the war immensely.”

“I’ve…Never much liked the idea of…of interviewing a spouse like a new housekeeper.” Dimitri stammered. “Letters and proposals come, but it’s so…”

“Targeted?” Rodrigue said, not without humor. “There are other ways to find a suitable partner. You could travel to noble houses, or-”

“What if I don’t want another noble?” Dimitri asked, exasperated “I learned to wield a lance as a child, I fought in the war. And it’s so soon after I just. I’m less worried about statesmanship and more worried whoever I settle on will be assassinated in their bed!”

The room was quiet. All cold stone and cold faces. Margrave Gautier, across the table with an interesting look on his face, Gilbert sitting calmly next to former Empire nobility.

“In any case.” Dimitri announced “This is hardly a matter for this council. If anybody has more to speak of in this matter I will gladly hear it, later. For now we have more important things to do.

Dimitri didn’t have time to humor outside marriage attempts while he was trying to work out how to smuggle a commoner into the bunch as anything other than a token. And he was mildly distracted the rest of the meeting.

Still halfway considering Yuri’s promise on his way to the library, Dimitri was waylaid by his least favorite associate. The Margrave.

“Your Majesty, a word?”

“Of course, Alexei. Please, speak freely.”

The Margrave, all crimson hair and stern lines that may have been handsome if he wasn’t so damned cold, smiled, and Dimitri felt simultaneously like he was going to hate this, and like he was going to get something out of it.

“My Liege, you wish for a more personal courtship? Well, my son, Sylvain, you recall, has made quite a name for himself in the jousting circuit. And you two are so similar, I couldn’t help but think, perhaps a marriage tourney would be a good idea. After all, if you bring them back, perhaps my son will finally find someone as well.”

“Sylvain.” Dimitri said slowly. Rolling the syllables over his tongue, as if it was unfamiliar.

“He held the Sreng border during the war.” Margrave Alexei reminded him, as if humoring a forgetful child. “Fraldarius’s younger boy, Felix, was sent to the Alliance to aid in the defence of Derdriu with Duke Riegan, while Glen and Rodrigue remained with you.” A cough “You were all all close as children.”

“I do recall my childhood Alexei. It has been a long while since I’ve seen Sylvain. Though you have a point. With a Tourney, anybody can enter. Wait! Yes. I understand. Thank you, Alexei, you’ve given me much to think about.”

Alexei watched him go with his standard calculating look in his eye. Dimitri absolutely didn’t care. It may be the one useful thing he had ever contributed to Dimitri’s personal life.

_~Five Days From The Agreement~_

Yuri rolled off the Kings body with a sigh, knocking his back into an end table and waiting a moment to see if leftover pastry or wine doused his back. Vaguely thankful when it didn’t. “Your bed is large enough for six people why am I riding you next to an end table?”

“Ah, for this!” Yuri’s view of the canopy was blocked by a broad chest, raised pink lines in the form of Yuri’s own nails scraping from collarbone to beneath thick pectoral muscles, as Dimitri reached over him to rifle through the drawer in the end table. Returning with a sheaf of thick, official looking paper.

“You haven’t elevated me to a Baronet or some such nonsense-”

“You’re effectively a Baronet _now_ -”

“I demand at least a Barony.”

Yuri took a moment to read the main lines of the page, eyes blinking slowly, unhappy to partake in such a strenuous activity as reading when he preferred a nap or a cuddle after an orgasm, but clearly it was important for Dimitri to demand he read it right now.

“I’m sorry does this say I’m a competitor in a minor Tourney outside of Galatea next month?”

“It does.”

“Why?”

Dimitri blushed, which was odd as he had, nothing, to blush about at this juncture. “I have a plan. And…you’ll need a recommendation.”

“A recommendation for _what_?” Yuri hated this, he felt six steps behind.

“Beloved.”

_Oh no._ Oh no what was he doing?

“I’ve found a way for us to be together.”

Lavender eyes narrowed in interest, and a little suspicion. “Go on.”

“I’m hosting a marriage Tourney. Winner takes my hand. I thought it apt. Anybody can prove themselves. They need only a reference. Which is the prize of this Tourney.”

Yuri sat bolt upright “Yes. _Anyone_ can. Dimitri you mean to make me combat every war hero from here to Almyra?” His voice felt pinched, his pitch too high, strangled.

“Beloved, you are exemplary in sword, and magic combat.”

“And _horsemanship_?”

Dimitri shrugged, Yuri was only lightly distracted by his muscles moving thick and pleasant under fair skin. “You can ride.”

“Your _dick_ isn’t a _jousting tournament_ Dimitri!”

The king made an odd noise. Then another, and Yuri was bewildered to hear him laughing.

“Beloved, my gyrfalcon, I’ve considered that. This is a small Tourney. Mine requires you to excel in foot combat, the joust, and magic.”

“Did you pass out between combat and magic?”

Dimitri reeled him in, kissing his hair as Yuri gaped, then whispered “Ring Jousting is an alternative.”

“Lead with that!”

“Besides.” Dimitri assured “We aren’t putting out a call to arms. Noble houses and mercenary guilds will be alerted, and if you look you can find the information. There are hardly so many people willing to live with someone like me, even if I am a king. I may be respected, but tales of my deeds on the battlefield are…divisive.”

“Your people love you and everybody else is a fool.” Yuri tacked on petulantly “But thank the goddess for fools. I suppose.”

“You’re just happy you killed a turncoat and accidentally fucked the king.”

Yuri’s eyes widened, mouth curling. “My, Dimitri, did you just say-”

“I spend far to much time with y-”

“How would Byleth put it? Your delicious Tactician, ah, how would he put it?”

“Please stop drooling over my friend and mentor when you’re bare in my-”

“Ah yes, the ‘fuck word’.”

“I detest you.”

“Love you too.”

_~One Year to the Wedding Tourney~_

Yuri swung his blade, testing the weight. His armor was thin, his sword was…less familiar. Naturally, killing someone in the ring would be frowned upon. So he’d had to acquire a tourney blade. A blunt, triangular thing that wouldn’t be piercing any hearts or rending any limbs. Which, hey that was good. Yuri didn’t really delight in killing. But playacting war made the lack of his long silver blade so apparent he wanted to write a letter home to it.

Dimitri had been right. It _was_ a small tournament. There was a joust, of course. But also a grapple, a magic, and a sword competition. The winners of all four would be offered recommendations. Yuri just had to take the sword.

Mostly he spent his time getting used to his new, fake sword. Walking about the tents, he got a shifty skewer that turned out to be delicious so that was fun. Balthus was off drinking. Which suited Yuri just fine, so long as he was sober and not in the stocks when it came time to announce him tomorrow.

There weren’t a lot of familiar faces. Lord Gwendal and Count Rowe had fallen in the war, and this weird barren area had never really been on his radar. He stopped to investigate a few leatherwork pieces at a stall and felt something soft and warm collide with his side.

“Oh no! Oh no! Bernie you’ve done it now. I’m so sorry! I was just-”

The high voice seemed abnormal coming from a large chest plate, black and spiked.

“Uh, do you need, help? I’m not much for heavy lifting but that looks like a two person job.” Yuri rattled out.

“No need!” The armor said again. “The blacksmith said he could have it sent over but there’s nothing Bernie can’t do! So I said I’d take it myself. But uh.”

“Your knight’s a bit bigger than you? I see.” Yuri said sympathetically. “You’re trying to reach their tent I imagine?”

“Yes.”

“So you’re…A squire, then?”

A large gray eye peeked around a spiked bit under smooth violet hair “No! I’m a writer! And Sylvies announcer. I don’t need to be a squire!”

Sylvie…Not a name he knew. Probably a small time knight. He had maybe gone over the local knights a few more times than he’d admit to see who his competition was. There was no published List so he didn’t really know who was here but, hey.

“I’m Yuri.” He settled on after a moment. “Uh, Sir Leclerc.”

“Bernadetta von Varley!” The voice responded, an oops. Yeah he did know that one. Why was she this far north? “I uh, came up after the war! I really like Faerghus.”

The weirdest coincidence. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same! Are you in the joust? I didn’t see a Leclerc on the jousting list.”

“No, fighting on foot, sword for me.” Yuri stated.

“Well that’s good, wouldn’t want you to lose out this fast! Sylvie’s on a roll.”

“Ah, good to know. Are you sure you don’t need help, Bernadetta?”

The stack of armor clanked together as she bounced the stack higher up into her grip. “Nope!” She said, cheerily, still hidden behind the stack. “I’m an archer, I can carry this all day.” A beat “But I’m gonna go.”

“Take care.” Yuri said faintly, shocked a moment later when the stack of armor rushed by him to reveal a petite girl carrying the stack in a neat black travelling dress, the red insignia of Varley between her shoulder blades like a target. He really did keep meeting people in the strangest places.

Largely, the sword and joust overlapped. So Yuri didn’t get the chance to see Bernadetta and her ‘Sylvie’ at work. He did manage to, for lack of a better term, bitchslap a competitor with his new fake sword on the third hit which led to even more recognition than he wanted. Yuri wasn’t a public sort of guy. The fact that Dimitri even wanted to marry him showed a weird disconnect between his sweet finch and the reality of nobility. But hey, what better way to be shielded from consequence then by being the prince consort of the Holy Kingdom? Also, he could take some of the work from Dimitri, put through his own writs, help people without driving his finch into wolf territory like the war did.

Where was he?

Right.

Publicity, he still didn’t like it. At least they weren’t making him sing.

All in all, small tournament, small potatoes. He won the sword without much of an issue, and was called forward after the final joust, which he still hadn’t gotten to see because his lovely announcer, Balthus, had thrown a wrench into the bracket by out wrestling the supposed champion on their own time. Which led to a question as to weather an off the books challenge witnessed by everybody in the drinking area, and to legal standards, counted as a zero hour entry. Yuri was almost late to the ceremony trying to cool tempers.

“Aww, thanks Queenie-”

“Balthus I will sacrifice you to a Brigidian fire spirit _do not try me_ -”

“The winner of the grapple, Sir Balthus, of Leicester.”

Balthus stepped forward, with no respect at all, grinning brightly, crushing the frail elderly man announcing in a one armed hug that probably popped a rib out of joint. He took his little bag of gold and a thick envelope sealed with thick gold wax.

The lady of the tournament, looked almost beautiful.

To be clear, the woman stood to about the shoulder of the old man, and a pressed, simple mint greed dress matched her coloring well. Her hair was short and in ribbons, and were it not for the thunderous look on her face, Yuri thought she’d be resplendent. She stood behind a table with three more prizes. One for sword, one for magic, one for the joust. However the jousts prize seemed to be smaller than the rest.

“The winner of the magi contest, Lady Dorothea Arnault, of Enbarr.” A lovely woman in red swept forward and bowed, with only a hint of mockery, somehow managing to make eye contact with the Tourneys lady flirtatious. Her gold and envelope handed over summarily.

Ah. Drama. Could Yuri go _home_?

“The winner of the sword, Sir Yuri Leclerc, of Faerghus.” Thank the goddess. He stepped forward and bowed his head, the few lavender strands of loose hair abandoning the tail of others they clung to and swiping softly around his face. He hoped he looked appropriately solemn. His winnings totaled about a hundred gold and the envelope. Barely enough for a rusted sword. But more than enough for a decent meal and a room on the way home. Also, securing an invite to his secret wedding setup was a plus. He stepped back.

“And winner of the Tourney and joust. Lord Sylvain Gautier, of Gautier.”

Oof. Okay, that was a big name. Why was he here.

A tall, handsome red haired man stepped forward in black armor.

Oh.

_Sylvie_.

He had to pass in front of Yuri to reach the table and ouch. A smile that fake must hurt. His eyes were glacial. His crimson hair seemed to have fallen lightly in the heat and a few strands stuck like blood to tanned skin.

“An offer, Lord Gautier.” The announcer, well, announced. “You may take your winnings and your envelope. Or, as the winner of this Tourney, you may take the family ring of Galatea, and the hand of my daughter, Ingrid.”

Sylvain didn’t even stop, walked right by the table, kissed the lady, Ingrid, on the cheek, hugged her tightly, then turned, and with a charming smile that Yuri felt could be politely described as ‘fanged’ but he looked a bit closer at people than most, and said simply “My winnings. Better luck next year, Lord Galatea.”

Ingrid had a little piece of parchment in her hand that hadn’t been there before Gautier hugged her.

Yuri had head about Gautier. An old friend of Dimitri’s, but they hadn’t seen each other in years. Known as a philanderer the country over. Yuri had expected him to be, well, either more brutish or more air headed.

Sylvain winked at him as he walked by Yuri and Balthus tearing down the tent. And sure it would hardly be kept in the open if he knew what it was, but Sylvain’s prize was visible and the envelope was not, as he mounted up a black warhorse. A white horse and Benadetta trotting to ride alongside.

Black and red were Gautier colors. Yuri felt like he’d missed an easy trivia question. Either way, envelope disposed of or not, Yuri expected to see Gautier again.


	2. Correspondence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix receives a letter, has a minor breakdown, and decides to enter the ring. 
> 
> ...Angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyy
> 
> Sorry it's short! And angst.
> 
> And not edited.
> 
> Here's a Felix chapter. He and Glenn bond. Glenn is nice to him but teases him too. Because Felix seems sad.

_Felix-_

_I was so glad to hear from you! Look at you, all grown up and sending letters like a noble. You’ve been holding out on me!_

_I know, I know, you’re rolling your eyes. Don’t, they’ll get stuck like that, hasn’t Rodrigue told you? Though if anybody can be a stunning master swordsman and a hero of Derdriu with their eyes shot white staring at the inside of their own head, probably you._

_I’ll get to the point. Or, one of the points. Galatea is trying to marry Ingrid off again, every year, I know. She got a letter to me and I crushed some poor bastard in the joust for her hand, then shot her dad down, again. So that’s an issue. I know you’re not one for Tourney life, don’t wanna scratch up your pretty face. Yeah, I know, Glenn told you not to idolize chivalry and you took it and ran. But here’s the thing, the prize I got after tuning down Ingrid? Get this, it’s a letter. For a WEDDING TOURNEY._

_-Sylvain- you say -Sylvain you whore don’t you dare marry a girl her father will kill you the moment you step out of line-_

_To which I say -aww, you love me!- and you turn pink because how dare I indicate you feel anything but the desire for strength. But hear me out, it’s for DIMITRI. Lil Dima all grown up and letting lords and ladies knock each other off horses for him. Anyway, I qualified, so I’m entering._

_Not to win of course. It’s ~Dimitri~ but hey one of the girls who won here, the magic segment, was the opera singer, Dorothea. You’re a fan, right? Well, she’s every bit as gorgeous in person. Pretty sure this would be a great place to find a wife. (Point two! Wish me luck!)_

_I love it when you share your interests, somehow I always benefit. Like the tip off for this surprise Tourney? Best ‘Hey Sylvain I’ll cover the Sreng border for a week go continue absolutely wrecking the jousting circuit’ letter ever._

_Do you think I’ll need to break off things with that cure scullery maid from the tavern if I do this? Or will she just work it out on her ow-_

Felix brushed the letter from his desk almost absently, eyes focused on the far wall.His sleeves were too tight on his wrists, his collar too tight on his throat. His fingers barely moved correctly when he reached up to undo the fabric. Suddenly incensed, he tore at the buttons on his sleeves after he freed his throat then simply struggled from the garment, throwing it into a corner, panting in the soft shirt he’d worn beneath. He’d had a meeting today. Some land claim. Glenn was home but he was a knight, Rodrigue was in the capital. So Felix was left to the drudgery of running the territory.

He yearned for his sword. He wanted to cut the fine buttons from the jacket he’d put on for the pressure and stiffness. Tighter clothing meant he sat straighter without thinking, pressure on his wrists and throat made him feel secure, like the gorget and bracers he’d worn over the supple silk and leather of his wartime armor. He wore little armor, but covering extremities was a good idea. He felt safer with it. Claude had insisted, and damn him he had been right.

He wanted to cut those buttons off, sell them at the border, and flee to Gloucester, collapse on Lorenz’s front step and take him up on learning Alliance culture. Then sprint into the woods with Leonie, become a hunter. Never see the outside again. He could flee south to Ordelia, learn Reason, north to Edmund, learn Faith, he could skitter to Goneril and fuck off with Hilda, spar with Holst, send letters to Glenn. Then when Glenn got sick of him being gone he could hop a caravan with Raphael and Ignatz and flee to Almyra and plead sanctuary with Claude, set diplomatic relations back ten years, and die in a desert.

A soft tap made him look down. He was sitting at his desk again, breath heavy and dry in his chest and there was a drop of moisture on the wood.

He was crying.

Damn.

What had Marianne said? Deep breaths, pinpoint what’s wrong.

He knew what was wrong.

Sylvain.

Heat lances his chest in the worst way, and his eyes burned again.

Taptaptap.

Felix took a deep breath and leaned forward, resting his face in his hands and breathing. Shaky breaths knocking around the stone of the office. After a moment, he cleared his throat and leaned back. Alright.

“I can’t keep doing this to myself.” He sighed to the empty room. His voice tired and weak. “I can’t keep sitting in this fucking room regretting writing him.” He leaned forward until his hair, loose, because he was _pretty_ with his hair down. Sylvain had said so, Claude had said so, Lorenz had said so. He looked softer, it was easier to deal with diplomats when he didn’t look like he was about to pull a sword on someone. That’s all. It wasn’t because the only time Sylvain had complimented him, and seemingly meant it it, was about this. “I can’t wait for this man to love me, he’s too busy being terrible.” He muttered into the wood, and snorted. “He barely cares about me as a friend. He’s just interested in getting laid. I deserve better than to be some form of….mail order dating service.” Leonie had said that enough. Annette had said that enough. Claude had said that straight up.

Why couldn’t he want to be with Claude? Yeah, schemer, but handsome and good hearted. Didn’t care so much about honor.

Leonie, fought dirty as hell, skilled, efficient. Felix was never really sure about how attractive girls were but Leonie was great. He shouldn’t marry Leonie. He should fight whoever Leonie wanted to marry to make sure he was good enough. Leonie could watch and discover his weak points and fix him up. Then Felix could fight him again. Leonie was awesome and shouldn’t have to work to get her potential spouse to her level, Felix would help.

Lorenz…Felix hated to admit it. But Lorenz was a catch. Way too noble, but he was amazing at tea, and his Reason was…Okay proficiency in magic was hot. With his hair grown out his sharp face was stunning.

But no. His stupid heart was stuck on Sylvain Gautier. Hair like blood and smooth skin, a rakish grin, a soft side, big, strong, thighs to die for. A big heart, even if he never used it, he was _so_ smart. He could do anything and instead he-

Felix sat up and ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, wiping away any evidence of sadness. Reached for his decanter, poured a glass of water, slammed it, poured another glass, dipped his fingers and wiped his face. He took a deep breath, retrieved his jacket, scrubbed his face and the desk, and calmly grabbed another paper to read. Eyes baked and dry and a warm uncomfortable throb in his temples. After a while his stack of papers was nearly gone, and he was still no closer to deciding what to do.

“Knock knock!”

The door opened, and Glenn knocked as he said it. He always did. It defeated the purpose of knocking.

“Hey Fefe, have you eaten ye- Oh. Hey you okay?”

Felix shuffled his papers into a reasonable pile. “I will. Just finishing.”

“Oh hey one’s on the floor I’ll grab it f-”

“ _Leave it be._ ”

Glenn stopped at the sudden…snarl. Felix’s voice like an angry dog. Holding still like his baby brother was holding a fistful of flames, Glenn let his eyes scan the page inconspicuously. The most he could make out was it was a letter from Sylvain. Felix’s pen scratched over one more sheet of paper, and then he stood.

“So, dinner’s ready?” Felix asked, standing and just, leaving the room.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah it is, Fe.” He waited a moment. Felix was seriously leaving a letter from Sylvain on the floor? “Hey is there anything I can do?” Beyond ride to Gautier and commit treason by slicing the neck of the next Margrave. Felix would never take him up on his offer. But Glenn liked to think he was a good brother. Felix stiffened in the doorway, shoulders bunching, then relaxing. Weird.

“Dimitri is having a wedding tourney?”

Is that what all this was about? “Yeah.” Glenn wasn’t thrilled either but wow, Felix was…bothered.

“So odds are letters of invitation were given to all high houses. Sylvain just happened to win his.”

“Sylvain is taking part?” At a glare from Felix Glenn stepped forward again, clasping his little brothers shoulder. “Felix what’s this about?”

“It’s stupid. He shouldn’t offer himself up like bear bait.” Felix scoffed, voice flat. “I’m not letting him sign himself away like this.”

“Well the tournament is already going to happen, Fefe. That’s don-”

“Give me your letter.”

“Uh, what?”

Felix turned his face so Glenn could see one eye, oddly swollen but no longer red. Like maybe Felix had cried over this. What the actual fuck was going on.

“You heard me. Your qualifying letter.”

“You want to marry Dimitri?”

“No. I want to help my friend not be fucking stupid. Glenn. I don’t ask you for much.”

Glenn blinked. “No.” He said slowly “You don’t. Want me to be your announcer?”

Felix smiled, sharp and wrong and Glenn was very lost and very concerned. “No. I’m going to send word to a friend. I just want your letter. I’ll rep house Fraldarius with the sword.”

“You need to be skilled in jousting, ring or list, and magic as well.” Glenn added dutifully.

“I’ll ask a friend for help. Full offence but you’re as shit at show riding as I am.”

“At least you know you’re terrible at it. I’m gonna run down to the kitchen and let them know to set it out. You should change, your fancy clothes aren’t super comfortable.”

Glenn slid the thick official paper across the table as they ate, the meal particularly spicy and off balance, but Felix smiled so Glenn decided running down and begging more heat be added was a win.

“Train with me. If I’m going to win this, it’ll be because I’m the best, not because you aren’t in the running.” Felix said, dabbing his lips and looking so much like a duke that Glenns heart ached. His baby brother was the best suited to this. He would have to brag to Holst that his little sibling was the best one now. All duty bound and beautiful and sharp edges.

“Of course. You’re going to gut the competition.” Glenn and Felix didn’t talk on their way to the training room. But once they got there, “When you eventually kick my ass, I’m buying you a warhorse.”

“ _Why._ ”

“So you can show up like a badass, Fraldarius men are fashionable, I’m not letting you drag us down with a knock kneed nag. It won’t match our colors.”

“You want me to match my horse?” Felix said dryly, still looking a bit cold as he swung a sword around to get used to the weight.

“Fraldarius teal looks best with greys, whites, and blacks. Cmon, you’ll be stunning. Then you’ll concuss people.”

“Just shut up and fight me.”

_Sylvain-_

_Thank you for helping Ingrid._

_I’ll let you know if she needs more help._

_I’d wish you luck, but we both know you’re just setting out to hurt yourself and everybody else. So I guess good luck._

_Not Yours,_

_Felix Hugo Fraldarius, First of His Name, General of Derdriu, Heir to House Fraldarius._


End file.
